


Suitable relief

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Clothing, Clothing Porn, M/M, PWP, Sibling Incest, Suit Porn, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let’s get rid of this,” Sherlock murmured. His hands covered Mycroft’s, fingers grabbing to peel them away from their hold on the towel. The cloth fell onto the sink, Sherlock picked it up and threw it on the floor. “That’s better,” he said with satisfaction. He tipped up Mycroft’s chin, bending Mycroft’s head slightly to the left. “Just look at you, Mycroft. So tight-laced and proper and righteous, you’re begging for it. I hate you for making me wait for you so long.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suitable relief

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: written for the 30 Day Holmescest (er, OTP) Porn Challenge. As this is about Sherlock and Mycroft I didn’t follow the rules. Obviously. This fic was written for Prompt 17. Masturbation. As can be expected this leads to a fulfillment of Prompt 3. Body fluids so I guess I filled that prompt as well  
> Beta: many, many thanks to the fantastic wellingtongoose. I can’t thank her enough for her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course

The revolving door rose at the end of the corridor like the gate to liberty. Mycroft’s hand grabbed the handle bar and pushed. A quarter of a second later he was standing outside, on the small terrace, pulling the exhaust fumes of the London evening traffic into his lungs with deep breaths.

Mycroft was fuming himself, fumes far more obnoxious and lethal than any murky gases traffic might discharge. Even the pollution disgorged by the old patched-up lorry that rumbled past along Whitehall right that minute in a haze of black mist, was less poisonous than the acrimonious rage that was eating away at Mycroft’s innards; not that he would let his agitation become obvious. No, Mycroft presented himself to London in his guise of unobtrusive minor official of the British government, gazing benignly on the realm he strove to serve.

Welcoming the exercise, Mycroft started walking in the direction of St James Park. Thankfully the headache, that had been pounding away at the inside of his skull like a pile driver at a building site, started a retreat at the double dose of aspirin he had forced down his throat. He counted on the view of well-kept green lawns and precisely ordered flowerbeds to calm him and aid him in reducing his anger to a manageable level. Nine thirty on a Friday night and he was livid! 

Instead of striking the railings he passed with his umbrella, which he felt very prone to do, he increased his pace.

 _Why?_ That simple three-letter adverb played a central role in Mycroft’s inner dialogues, most often combined with three equally common words: _“were people so …?”_

 _Why were people so …?_ The array of adjectives to conclude the sentence with was virtually limitless: aggravating, bovine, callous, dishonest, insipid, irritating, obtuse, stupid … et cetera. Good word that, stupid, and true, oh, so very, very true.

The gates of the park welcomed him. Mycroft set himself an even brisker pace, breathing deeply to inhale the soothing air of a magnificent early summer evening. The tops of the trees were already dark against a dusky bluish sky crisscrossed with streaks of citron yellow and emerald green so glowingly luminous it hurt one’s eyes to look upon it. 

As expected the comforting surroundings of the park secreted their healing influence on his troubled mind. He paused to admire the shape of a black mulberry tree and halted a bit further on to observe a pair of black swans gliding over the water surface with graceful ease; such elegant creatures. The long line of their lithe supple necks was so alluring, covered with soft downy deep-black feathers to ruffle and stroke. Beautiful animals, and faithful too. Attaching themselves to a partner and remaining steadfast beside the chosen one, for life.

Mycroft sighed. Back at his flat Sherlock would be waiting for him, having come down from Cambridge for the weekend, no doubt in an advanced state of peevishness by now. Only that morning Mycroft had been looking forward to a quiet stolen weekend with his brother. He had allowed his mind to dwell on the prospect of hours of languid, luxurious lovemaking, a visit to the opera on Saturday evening – Idomeneo, one of Mycroft’s favourites, but then he _revered_ Mozart – and maybe a walk along the Thames at Kew on the Sunday afternoon amongst throngs of respectable families. 

Mingling with the public whose general welfare he worked so hard to ensure provided Mycroft with an innocent pleasure. Sherlock’s delight in these amblings was of a more perverse nature. He amused himself by enacting the part of adoring younger brother in awe of his elder sibling, hanging on his every word, while signalling sideways from beneath modestly lowered eyelashes. During the past few months he had perfected the art of throwing lewd glances at Mycroft out of a face that could have served as the epitome of angelic purity for whole hordes of Flemish Primitive masters. The effect on Mycroft was more overpowering than any visual work of art, sending a jolt of electricity straight from his eyes to his groin every time he intercepted one of his brother’s looks.

They were going to enjoy their weekend, naturally, but this frustrating occurrence meant an inauspicious start of what would have been a short two day holiday away from the burden of Mycroft’s daily life. That infuriating ignoramus of a Wilkinson! The man had sat simpering in front of Mycroft’s desk while alternately wringing his hands or bringing them up to hide his tear-streaked face. The memory of the revulsion he had felt for his maddening minion during their talk set a fresh bout of fury rising in Mycroft’s chest. 

He tapped the point of his umbrella against the side of his shiny oxblood brogue to let off some of his steam in an inconspicuous way, careful to maintain his outward appearance of a veracious British gentleman. He _was_ a British gentleman, the genuine article, stiff upper lip and all, never raising his voice, not even when an abominable Eton and Oxford educated _simpleton_ shambled into his office to sniffle he honestly wouldn’t know what had gone wrong during the preliminary talks to the signing of the treaty with the Norwegians . 

All Wilkinson had needed to do was make sure the Norwegians agreed to the draft, and he had bungled it. Shortly before the inferior _featherhead_ stumbled into Mycroft’s office the Norwegian ambassador had called to express his displeasure at the proceedings. Mycroft had managed to calm down the distinguished representative, they had ended the call on the friendliest of terms and with the assurance the treaty would still be signed in two weeks time. However, Mycroft’s idea of time spent profitably did not consist of smoothing feathers that were ruffled due to other people’s lack of propriety and he had treated Wilkinson to a tongue-lashing that gave an accurate indication of _his_ displeasure. 

After the young man had left his office Mycroft had remained sitting at his desk with his head in his hands for what had felt like a long time. Looking at his watch once he had come to his senses again, he estimated he had let twenty minutes pass by in a state of utter shock. The belief in his aptitude to gauge the individuals working in his department was profoundly shaken. Wilkinson had been trusted with his minor mission as a reward for the sharpness and diligence he had shown in the past few years. Mycroft had been convinced the young man would pass this elementary test with flying colours. Instead, he had failed in a most abominable manner. 

The young man’s _faux pas_ wouldn’t backfire thanks to the excellent relations with the Norwegians Mycroft had built with great care, but in dispatching Wilkinson Mycroft had made a nearly fatal mistake in his assessment of the boy’s character and thus fallen short of what he had come to expect of himself. Worse, he had not fulfilled his obligation to serve his Queen and country with the best of his abilities, a deficiency Mycroft considered to be unforgivable.

An empty bench beckoned him and he sat down, promising himself it would be for a moment only, but he truly needed to regain his composure before seeing his brother.

A young couple came sauntering by, arms clasped tightly around each other. They halted in front of Mycroft’s bench. The boy drew the girl in his arms and started kissing her with a remarkable lack of finesse. He made up for his deficiency with diligent ardour and the girl rewarded his keenness by responding enthusiastically. 

The corners of Mycroft’s lips curled involuntary at the sight of the pair’s clumsy attempts at a passionate kiss. A mild benevolence rose in his chest as he sat watching their antics. The thought of providing the young man with some modest advice on the subject of kissing someone properly fleeted through his mind. However, upon reconsideration he deemed the chance his unsought counsel would be welcomed highly improbable and decided to refrain from commenting, observing the couple from beneath his lashes instead. 

Observing. Watching. Assessing. He wiggled his toes in his shoes. His dearth of surveillance, that was where the shoe pinched. Seated on his humble park bench Mycroft resolved he would invite every subordinate working for him into his office for a friendly chat in the weeks to come. He would reacquaint himself with all of them; start afresh in his judging of their personalities and usefulness. This meant he was willingly stashing massive amounts of overtime into his already overflowing agenda but he reasoned this disadvantage would be outweighed by the advantage of never making today’s mistake again.

Feeling a little better, Mycroft rose from the bench. He couldn’t very well keep Sherlock waiting much longer. Twirling his umbrella to fortify himself with the outward appearance of light-heartedness he aimed for the gates of the park on Birdcage Walk. 

Twenty minutes later he opened the front door to his flat to be greeted by the sound of a violin floating towards him out of the direction of the living room. For one instant Mycroft imagined Sherlock had brought his violin. The responding burst of the orchestra proved him wrong and identified the music as the festive rondo of Beethoven’s violin concerto. Mycroft sighed. Apparently Sherlock had decided to mess up Mycroft’s punctiliously organised CD collection while waiting for his brother to arrive.

Sherlock’s black duffle bag was lying in the middle of the small entrance hall, no doubt in the exact position where it had landed when it was launched from Sherlock’s shoulder. Mycroft sighed again and shoved the bag aside with his foot. He failed to understand how someone as conspicuously strict with regard to his own personal hygiene as Sherlock could be so lax when it came to general tidiness. Sherlock’s student room in Cambridge bore the aspect of a primitive lair, the only reason it didn’t positively reek was the cleanliness of the body of its occupant. On his visits to the homestead Sherlock managed to leave a trail of his activities all through the house, a cluttered trajectory constructed out of sheet music, books on various subjects ranging from chemistry to taxidermy, and the articles on gruesome murders, cases of blackmail and other heinous crimes he insisted on tearing out of the newspapers with the promise to properly file them in the near future. 

Of course, Sherlock got away with this sloppiness, beguiling an exasperated Nanny with a winning smile and an affectionate kiss on her soft wrinkled cheek, mumbling his sincere apologies to Daddy and embracing Mummy while promising he would honestly try to better himself. With Mycroft he basically employed the same tactics, except he had a more extensive repertoire of tricks to fall back on to ensure Mycroft stopped complaining and drew Sherlock close for a kiss instead. 

Mycroft gave the door to the living room a nudge and braced himself for what he would encounter. As expected the well-ordered state of the area had disintegrated to one of general upheaval. What struck Mycroft in particular was the new position of the light over the dining table, an antiquity to which Mycroft was quite attached. It was a Lalique chandelier, having come down to Mycroft through his beloved great-aunt Augusta who had inherited the object from her mother. This member of the family had been a ravishing beauty who had shocked the Holmes clan by exchanging her dependable but dull husband for a French attaché ten years her junior sometime during the twenties. This had resulted in her being cast out from the family, but great-aunt Augusta had always secretly been rather proud of her enterprising parent. The costly piece of furniture was hanging slightly askew, as if Sherlock had used the fixture to fling himself across the room in order to crash land on the sofa which he was now occupying with a petulant face and querulously wriggling toes.

“You’re late,” he greeted Mycroft.

“Don’t state the obvious, Sherlock,” Mycroft enjoined, fully aware this remark needled Sherlock as much as Sherlock’s greeting had nettled Mycroft. He sank down on the sofa next to Sherlock’s hips and rested his head in his hands. A great weariness overtook him. He wasn’t up to a fight, not now. He felt Sherlock’s eyes travel over his figure. The next thing Mycroft knew Sherlock shifted to allow him more space and deposited his hand in Mycroft’s lap. “Hello,” he said, his voice warm and much more friendly. “Did you have a rotten day? Me too.” 

Tenderness was conveyed by the comforting squeeze he gave Mycroft’s thigh. 

“That stupid old bore of a Ruggles started complaining about the mess I had made in his lab,” continued Sherlock with a snort. “It isn’t even his lab, and I had only just started my experiment. I couldn’t attend the reaction properly while that despicable idiot was distracting me and I was just shouting at him to sod off when it suddenly exploded in a quite spectacular manner. No one was hurt but I’ve been expelled from the lab for three whole weeks. Which is unfair, I would have managed perfectly well if that annoying piece of inadequacy hadn’t decided to vent his upset on me over the fact his ugly daughter is getting a divorce because his stupid son in law decided the sales manager of the druggist in Hobson Street is more attractive than his wife, which is probably the case if Ruggles’ daughter bears any resemblance to her father.”

Sherlock paused. Mycroft felt the corners of his eyes crease with a pale smile. Sherlock’s whole career at university appeared to exist of getting himself into scrapes like these. His professors had risen above their usual academic disputes and formed a united front in their extreme dislike of him. Even so they had to admit he was one of the most brilliant students to have attended the university in over fifty years.

“To make matters worse I ran into that profound dimwit of a Hargrave on my way home. He started dinning in my ears again about how he was still in love with me. I told him to fuck off. Told him I didn’t want to see him ever again and I had never been interested in him anyway. Christ, I never even allowed him to _kiss_ me … “ Sherlock stopped. “You aren’t listening, are you?” he asked. 

Mycroft shook his head. He felt exhausted all of a sudden. The unpleasantness with Wilkinson had disturbed him more than he would have been willing to admit. Besides, he didn’t want to hear about this _bloody_ Hargrave, the boy with whom Sherlock had battled his boredom during his years in school by engaging in various activities of a sexual nature. Mycroft hated the boy with a quiet passion for having been the first to enjoy Sherlock’s attentions, however dismissive Sherlock might be about their nature. He drew his hand over his eyes. More than anything he wanted to sleep; roll over with his nose pressed close in Sherlock’s hair and lose himself in healing oblivion.

Sherlock fondled Mycroft’s thigh with gentle fingers, stroking the fabric with the lightest of touches.

“Nice feel,” he said, “very soft. Is that a new suit you’re wearing? I like it, I do. You look good in it. Somehow it’s less boring than the rest of the stuffy attire you insist on wearing. Did you find yourself a different tailor?”

The hand kept up its tranquilizing rhythm, cajoling Mycroft to surrender himself to the calm caressing. He fixed his eyes on the fingertips tracing their trail along the faint light-blue pinstripes which stood out against a background that was the colour of a dark summer night. 

His tailor caught Mycroft’s glance straying to the bolt of cloth when he came in a few weeks ago to order a new suit in the subdued grey shades of tone he preferred. Before he knew it he was standing in front of a mirror with the material draped over his shoulder. The tailor induced him to touch the material, to appreciate how the stripes highlighted the shade of his eyes. If Mycroft would be so kind as to follow his suggestion for a sharper cut of his waistcoat and jacket, and only that day a wonderful silk had arrived from Italy, the tint an exact copy of the hue of the stripes, perfect for the lining and the back of the waistcoat. Daring, yes, the man had to agree with Mycroft, but Mycroft was young enough to get away with such a bold statement of his independence, he had the figure for it, and he wouldn’t regret his decision, the fabric was made to suit him.

Mycroft acquiesced before the verbal onslaught and at the first fitting he was heartily prepared to admit his tailor had a good eye. Never before had he been so impatient for the outfitter to finish his work. His shirt maker was most vocal in his praising of the material while fingering the sample Mycroft brought him, heading off for his own stores of fine Egyptian cotton to hunt for the perfect match and presenting his findings with a flourish, promising he would find him a beautiful set of ties to complement the ensemble.

The suit – with the required extra pair of trousers – shirts and ties had been delivered yesterday evening and Mycroft had taken more than his usual pleasure in the ritual of dressing himself that morning. He had left the flat with a spring in his step. Rhea, his personal assistant, had complimented him ardently on the attire, eulogising its merits each time she handed him a file or brought him his coffee. Now Sherlock was expressing his approval as well. If it weren’t for that reprehensible non-entity of a Wilkinson …

“Oh, natty,” came Sherlock’s voice, laced with amusement and real appreciation. His hand had overturned the lower part of the front panel, revealing the shimmering light-blue silk of the lining. The fingers brushed the material approvingly. “Really Mycroft, you know I normally hate those stupid suits of yours, but this one is marvellous. You look wonderful. Positively edible, in fact.” Sherlock’s hand crept lower again. _Greedy._

Mycroft took a grip on his brother’s hand and laid it gently aside before raising himself from the sofa. 

“Thank you,” he said, quite certain he swayed for the briefest of moments. He corrected himself instantly but Mycroft was ready to testify for a minute it would have looked to Sherlock as if his elder sibling was about to topple. “Thank you,” he repeated. “I’ll just go and refresh myself a bit. I don’t feel very well. I have enjoyed a rather tiring day.”

“Mycroft?”

Ignoring Sherlock’s anxious voice Mycroft walked out of the room and headed for his bedroom and the en suite bathroom. In the bedroom Sherlock had already put on the bedside lamps and turned back the duvet. Mycroft pulled a wry face. He was most sorry to disappoint Sherlock but he didn’t feel up to any action this evening. Mycroft would be happy to watch as Sherlock masturbated, his brother was free to spurt his semen all over Mycroft but Mycroft felt he wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to add to the proceedings, not to mention any other body parts which his brother might deem just as necessary in coming to a satisfactory conclusion.

He put on the light in the bathroom and contemplated his reflection in the big mirror over the sink for a long time. The bathroom was a rather grand affair, a bit too ostentatious for Mycroft’s taste. It had been installed by the previous owner, a banker who had set up his mistress in the flat. 

At the time of the acquisition and his transfer to the flat Mycroft had been rather stressed – he shuddered at the remembrance of having to cope with the catastrophic Australian elections, the sussed crisis with the Germans and the nasty problem in the constituency of P… . besides all the other daily recurring problems one encountered in governing a Nation. Thankfully all had ended well – and thus Mycroft refrained from any extensive redecoration. Consequently his bathroom was still outfitted with an enormous mirror that filled the whole wall over the elaborate sink. The lighting of the room could be adjusted from the intimacy of an eighteenth century French boudoir to the glare of an Oxford Street shop window during the Christmas season thanks to an ingenious system installed in the ceiling, the walls and the monstrous mirror itself. Over time Mycroft had grown used to the arrangement and even came to appreciate its advantages in shaving. With the lights on at full blast no bristly hair escaped his scrutiny as he applied the knife to his throat every morning.

His tiredness allowed for no more than a tempered lighting. He put his hands on the sink in front of the basin and leaned on his arms, dropping his head between his shoulders, disgusted with what he’d seen in the glass. A prematurely elderly man, forehead lined with worry and with bluish bags under his eyes. Not a very attractive sight. Whatever did Sherlock see in him? To add injury to insult his tie was misaligned, it hung a quarter of an inch too much to the left. That must have happened during the interview with Wilkinson. At least he hoped it had. 

He opened the faucet and held his hands under the cool running water before bringing down his head and his palms up to dip his face into the clear liquid. The chill set the skin of his face tingling; a not unpleasant sensation which made him feel somewhat better. He repeated the treatment several times, it really was invigorating. To finish his improvised cure he sprinkled his hair with some water as well, baptising himself to a state of fresh revitalisation.

With his head over the basin to ensure the drops wouldn’t run down his neck he groped for the towel to the side of the sink, and, burying his face in the fluffy cloth, righted himself. He remained standing enjoying the plush sensation, the soft tickle of the fibres against the skin of his cheeks. 

The worst of his exhaustion had indeed abated. He should have freshened himself up the minute he walked into the flat, or rather in the toilet facilities at the office. 

_Practical thinking._ He had been too wrought up to approach the situation with his usual _sang froid_. Feeling well again he contemplated going to the living room to ask Sherlock to pour him a finger-width of the Calvados he had brought back from their holiday in Normandy last spring. They would ensconce themselves on the sofa, Mycroft sipping his drink and swirling the warm toasty apple taste around his mouth, Sherlock plastered close against him, purring like a contented cat as Mycroft carded his hand through Sherlock’s silky curls.

Mycroft was about to put down the towel when he felt a warm whiff of breath ghosting over his nape. Immediately after a pair of arms was wrapped around his body and his brother’s lips applied themselves to the back of his neck with religious zeal. He would recognise the touch of those lips anywhere. The past three years he had devoted hours to studying them, admiring their shape, enjoying their ample generosity, musing how the devil would have held all the aces up his sleeve during his project of the temptation of St Anthony, if only he had made use of those wicked instruments of pleasure. 

“People are idiots, aren’t they?” Sherlock rumbled near Mycroft’s ear. “You should ignore them, like me.” His teeth nibbled Mycroft’s earlobe. Mycroft quivered and felt Sherlock tightening his grip in response, his pelvis pressing against Mycroft’s buttocks. Though he was sheathed in layers of clothing Mycroft sensed Sherlock must be naked from the intrusive movement of his brother’s penis against the seat of his trousers. Contrary to Mycroft’s earlier assessment his member showed an interest in the proceedings, twitching feebly. He remained standing perfectly still with the towel against his face, inhaling the scent of his own skin. 

“Let’s get rid of this,” Sherlock murmured. His hands covered Mycroft’s, fingers grabbing to peel them away from their hold on the towel. The cloth fell onto the sink, Sherlock picked it up and threw it on the floor. “That’s better,” he said with satisfaction. He tipped up Mycroft’s chin, bending Mycroft’s head slightly to the left. “Just look at you, Mycroft. So tight-laced and proper and righteous, you’re begging for it. I hate you for making me wait for you so long.”

The last word was accompanied by a long rough stroke of his wet tongue along the exposed tendon in Mycroft’s neck. The pulse point beneath Mycroft’s ear throbbed heavily in response. Mycroft was convinced his eyes could detect the frantic pulse of his blood beneath his skin in his reflection in the mirror. His breath hitched as Sherlock bit the tendon lightly, working his way along the tight rope with ardent dedication until he reached the barrier of Mycroft’s shirt collar. Sherlock took a grasp on Mycroft’s left hip for support and inched his right index finger into the collar to draw it away from Mycroft’s neck. The edge of his nail rasped along the sensitised skin, sending a shiver rippling down Mycroft’s side. His legs trembled as Sherlock kissed the spot laid bare beneath the collar, sighing with evident pleasure, his eyes closed.

“God, I missed you,” he groaned. “I’ve been lying on that sofa for hours.”

Mycroft huffed out a bitter laugh. “You should be glad I didn’t arrive any sooner,” he said.

Sherlock’s answer was a wrestler’s grasp around Mycroft’s ribcage, his long arms reaching up so he could grip Mycroft’s shoulders, their slender paleness high-lighted against the dark shock of the suit. In the mirror his eyes locked with Mycroft’s.

“I don’t care what mood you’re in,” he declared, his lips moving next to Mycroft’s jaw. “I just want you near me. Always.”

His grip on Mycroft’s shoulders tightened briefly, possessively. Even if Mycroft had wanted to reply he couldn’t have, Sherlock’s honest acknowledgement of his need for his elder sibling filling him with a mixed jumble of emotions ranging from an instinctive fear of Sherlock’s possessiveness to the highest tops of paradisiacal elation over his brother’s willingness to be his lover. Helplessly, his hands moved at his sides, found a soft stretch of naked skin that proved to be part of Sherlock’s thigh. The well-toned long muscles twitched beneath the accidental brush of his fingers. Mycroft whimpered.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed behind him. “Oh.” 

The leg was moved away from Mycroft’s touch while the hands that had been holding onto his shoulders plunged down, the left one undoing the buttons of the waistband while the right hand roved over his fly. The zip was pulled down, warm supple fingers inserted themselves, pulling at the brushed cotton of his briefs, groping inside and closing themselves with the gentlest touch around his member that sprang into the caress willingly, like a young affectionate pup jumps into the embrace of its master. 

Sherlock smiled, his eyes searching Mycroft’s once more, sparkling with mischief.  
“Not feeling very well, are we?” he whispered. He rocked his pelvis into Mycroft’s rear, so Mycroft could feel him, eager and hot. Sherlock’s fingertips travelled upwards over his penis at a languid pace, as if they were enjoying a stroll in the countryside, sauntering over a ridge on a splendid summery day. Mycroft bit his lip, straining not to urge his hips forward to nestle his member deeper into the cradle of Sherlock’s hand.

“Your nice new suit is going to end up a little wrinkled,” Sherlock laughed. His hands left their temporary occupation to tug at the waistband and pull the trousers down, to be followed by an equally swift descent of Mycroft’s blended silk briefs.

“That’s better,” Sherlock continued, eyeing the erected result of his hard work with obvious satisfaction. “Now let’s add a little moisture, shall we, to help for an easy advance of our operations?”

Holding Mycroft’s gaze in the mirror he licked his lips, the pink tip of his tongue gliding over the generous drop of the lower lip at unhurried leisure, reaching up next to caress the wicked accessory of Eros. He inserted his middle finger into his mouth and sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks. Fascinated, Mycroft watched, his unattended penis reaching higher of its own accord to call attention to its existence and its readiness to once more become an active participant in the proceedings.

Sherlock pulled his finger out of his mouth with a wet audible plop and stood admiring his hand for a moment. Meanwhile the left insinuated itself in front of Mycroft’s groin to cup his testicles, squeezing them with the faintest little touch. Mycroft felt his breath hitch in his throat, he couldn’t have recounted later whether that was caused by the feel of his sibling’s hand on his balls or the sight of Sherlock lapping his own hand with thick deliberate strokes of his tongue, dousing his hand with saliva that glistened in the light of the mirror’s lamps while grunting with pleasure. He slanted his eyes towards Mycroft’s in the reflection of the glass, their expression unreadable.

“There,” he growled and grasped Mycroft’s penis with his lubricated hand. He was hot and smooth and velvety-soft and fitted himself around Mycroft’s already hard member perfectly. A couple of swift strokes had him burning and rock hard in seconds and desperate to reach completion but his brother was a little tease, as ever, and he slowed his hand down, playing with the frenulum, the tip of his pink caressing the slit and the red shiny glans where the drops of pre-ejaculate kept welling up. 

Closing his eyes Mycroft submitted to the torture, moaning with frustration but fighting against the desire to clasp his own hand over his sibling’s and force him to complete his task. He was so close, all he needed was a few more strokes and one more look at Sherlock’s shiny wet mouth blinking at him over the edge of his shoulder.

“Mycroft, please, look at you now,” Sherlock breathed into his ear. His hand tightened its grip on Mycroft’s penis again and Mycroft flicked up his lashes. He gasped at the distorted picture of eroticism that greeted him. The image in the upper part of the mirror of a suited up respectable government official clashed violently with the debauched pornography of the lower part. His stiffened thrusting … _cock_ riding the elegant hand that so conveniently offered itself to his assistance. He was pumped viciously, the need pooling at the base of his spine and he shuddered as he felt and saw the thick stream of ejaculate spurting out of the glistening glans, his brother’s murmurings edging him on, inducing him to give himself over to the obliterating wipe-out of his orgasm, as if he needed any further injunction.

With a few last helpless twitches of his spent penis between Sherlock’s tender fingers, he felt his legs giving way, falling against Sherlock’s surprisingly strong body. Sherlock held him up with his left arm, laughing softly.

“Look, Mycroft,” he crowed and brought his hand up to lick it clean, drawing his tongue over the palm to lick up the semen coating the skin and sniffing it with obvious pleasure. 

“You smell delicious,” he announced before kissing him on the cheek. “But now it’s off to bed with you because you’ve upset Mummy for coming all over your nice new suit.”

“Yes, bed,” Mycroft agreed. Together they made it to the bedroom somehow and Mycroft felt himself lowered with careful deliberation onto the mattress. The duvet was arranged over him. Gentle wet lips were pressed to his brow.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Sherlock promised.

Mycroft heard his brother walk back to the bathroom and open the faucet. He stared up at the ceiling, basking in the drowsiness of his saturated body. 

For a moment he struggled against his eyes intent to fall closed before succumbing to the temptation.

He slept.


End file.
